


Queens of the Court

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Me and my princesses,” Charon would always crow.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>And Flea would always stubbornly meet his eye and insist on one thing: “Queens.”</i>
</p>
<p>Porthos learns to run the Court as a young girl, but as she grows, she quickly learns that it's every bit a struggle to get ahead in the Court as would be on the outside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queens of the Court

_7_

Porthos du Vallon begins to make a name for herself at seven years old. With her hair tucked neatly under a bandanna and a mask covering her face, she’s stealthy and sprightly and swift. No one can stop her from sliding in through the spaces where people forget to look and no one wants to see a young black girl, even in the Court.

She’s invisible. She’s quick. And she’s angry at being ignored.

She’s on her way to becoming a great thief and people twice her age are starting to notice. Those three times her age dismiss her, but Porthos knows that she’ll show them. She may have started all this to survive, but there’s a thrill in the adrenaline rush of doing something that you were told you couldn’t do.

She lives in the shadows because it lets her do what she does and no one bothers to look at her.

Which isn’t strictly true. There are two people who are the exception to the rule. There is Charon, who is a few years older and seems to understand Porthos’ talent. He’s taken her under his wing and shows him the best places to camp out, the way to dress when you need to trade on sympathies, and he’s the one who showed her how to fight with a knife and how to brawl.

And then there’s Flea.

Flea teaches her how to run the Court through its’ rabbit-warren hallways, how to please the King, how to steal food without anyone noticing, and she’s the one who teaches Porthos how to read and write. Between the both of them, Porthos is quickly finding her home and she does it knowing she’s got two warm bodies to curl up to at night. They form a hurricane force between the three of them, making sure they’re always able to eat comfortably and sleep as warmly as they can.

“Me and my princesses,” Charon would always crow.

And Flea would always stubbornly meet his eye and insist on one thing: “Queens.”

That’s the lead Porthos grows up following.

 

_15_

Things are changing too quickly for Porthos’ liking.

When they were kids, no one cared about the two urchin princesses of the outer flanks of the Court. They were allowed to do their work in peace and quiet. Then, as they began to grow up, that changed. Men were beginning to take notice of Flea in a way that made Porthos sick in a way she didn’t understand. 

“I hate how they stare at you,” Porthos complains, staring down at the bag of coins she’d lifted off a noble earlier, working at the stitches until a hole begins. Is this jealousy? Does Porthos want them to stare at her instead?

Nah, can’t be. She wants accolades for her skills, not her looks. Besides, she’s not got Flea’s curves. She’s all lean muscles and height, her eyes big and wide. She keeps her hair in perfect condition, but no longer than some of the other men, and while she knows she’s pretty, she’s not _stunning_ the way Flea’s becoming.

Porthos crawls onto their shared bed to start winding strands of Flea’s hair in her hands, absently braiding it in order to give herself something to do. She’s quick with her hands and quicker by the day now. She’s able to work complicated plaits into Flea’s hair as she curls in close to her, basking in this closeness.

“You shouldn’t care so much,” Flea replies. “It’s just men being men.”

“They want you,” is her quiet reply, well-versed enough to know what those looks are.

“Well, I don’t want them,” Flea announces stubbornly. “So that’s that on the matter. Isn’t it?”

She’s not sure how, but somehow, Flea always knows exactly what to say to put her at ease. They sleep curled around each other that night and Porthos doesn’t think about those awful stares for more than a moment after that, because she trusts Flea and knows that if any of them push too far, then they’ll have to answer to Porthos.

 

 

_16_

Porthos wants to run away. 

“I hate it here,” she complains sharply, running her hand viciously through her curls as she paces the floor of their shared room. “No matter how good I am, no matter how clever you are, they always look past us to the men when it comes to bringing people into the inner circle,” she spits out bitterly, knowing that she’s a better thief than the lot of them. “Flea, we should go,” Porthos pleads, crawling up to her and sliding her palms up Flea’s calf-skin covered legs. “Please?”

She’s using her very best moon-eyes, which Porthos has been told are a dangerous thing to try and ignore. 

“Where would we go?” Flea challenges. “We’ve barely got enough coin between us to scrape together a week’s dinner.”

“My fingers have never failed us before,” Porthos insists. “Besides, I can arrange a few hands of poker, steal money off the Red Guard, maybe even some of the King’s security…”

“You’ll get yourself put in prison and you know it,” Flea chastises. “When did I become the sense in this relationship?”

Porthos hates the idea of staying under anyone’s boot for very long, but Flea knows that too. She leans in and cups Porthos’ cheek firmly. “Don’t worry,” she says, eyes burning with a passion that makes Porthos’ stomach tumble with adoration and affection. “We’ll show ‘em. One by one, we’ll make them see us.”

 

 

_19_

Porthos isn’t supposed to see this. 

Flea’s around the corner with a thief from Reims who’s in town for a job and all Porthos can see is the way he’s got his fingers up her skirts while Flea tips her head back against the wall, in the throes of ecstasy and pleasure the likes of which Porthos has never seen before on her friend’s face. 

Her eyes go blurry and it takes Porthos a moment to realize that she’s distraught to the point that she’s in tears. She angrily wipes at them and turns to get away, but only gets so far as to bump right into Charon.

He’s got a bottle of red wine in hand and a sympathetic look on his face. “I know that look,” he says. “C’mon, princess. Share a drink with me.”

“Only if you stop calling me princess,” she growls in turn, but yanks the bottle out of his hands because she does need this drink. She’s trying to get the image of Flea and that man out of her head, but it’s not going anywhere. In fact, she suspects it’s going to be the first thing she sees when she closes her eyes tonight. Charon keeps looking at her expectantly and she knows she’s not getting away with stealing his drink without telling him why. “Flea and the Reims man are getting along,” is all she musters out, voice hoarse.

“Is that it? Porthos,” Charon chides. “You’re still her favourite.”

Only, she’s not the one that Flea wants to touch. She’s not the one who gets these intimate moments and for the first time in her whole life, she feels rampantly, awfully jealous.

Something’s going to have to change, she realizes, and it’ll have to be soon.

 

 

_19 (and a half)_

Porthos has packed her bags and has a plan.

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

What she hasn’t counted on is Charon betraying her confidence and telling Flea all about it. Porthos had thought it a fairly brilliant idea. Still lanky and lean, she intends to hide herself in bulky clothes and wear a bandanna on her hair, aiming to pass herself off as a bloke to try and join a guard of some sort. The lack of beard might be a problem, but not one that she thinks is the end of the world. 

She hasn’t counted on Flea turning up like an avenging angel, standing between her and the freedom that she thinks will solve all her problems. 

She can’t stop Flea from enjoying herself, but she can remove herself from a situation where she has to watch it. 

“I’m going to leave,” Porthos insists stubbornly. “With my quick hands and faster feet, plus my right hook, someone will take me for their personal guard.” She draws herself up to her full height, as imposing as she can be at five-foot-ten, but even though Flea is a few inches shorter than her, the tempest of her fury more than makes up the difference.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she growls. 

“You could come with me,” Porthos offers hopefully. That’s what she wants more than anything. If they leave, there won’t be as many chances for strange men to work their way into Flea’s heart and potentially wrench her away from Porthos forever. If they leave together, they can start a life, together.

Flea’s look is enough for Porthos to know that it’s not going to happen.

So now it comes down to this. Porthos leaves and sets off alone with nothing to her name and no friends, but won’t have to see her heart broken. She’s also going to lose Flea forever. Or she stays and bears the brunt of the emotional pain as best as she can, hiding behind friendship but basking in it, too.

Flea says nothing when Porthos shows up for dinner that evening, her hair tucked under her bandanna and her gold earring gleaming like she’d never taken it out with the intent to hide herself away.

“Pass the wine,” is all she says.

They don’t speak of Porthos’ plan after that, as if it hadn’t almost come to pass.

 

 

_21_

The old King dies.

At least, that’s the simplest version story. What really happens is that there’s a Red Guard raid and they throw out half the Court (which is useless because they all inevitably come back), but in the midst of tossing his possessions, the old King’s heart gives out right in front of a delighted Red Guard. Porthos and Flea are watching from behind the curtains, even though Porthos’ fingers are getting itchy and she wants nothing more than to thieve a purse or two.

“Don’t,” Flea warns, drawing Porthos back before she can do something stupid. By the time the Red Guard are through with the Cardinal’s latest agenda, everyone is dispersing back to find the old man’s corpse, still lopsided in his throne.

The inner court stares at him, unsure what to do.

And now becomes the crucial time because now is the moment that will define who comes next. Porthos and Flea are still on the outer ranks of this Court, having thieved and charmed and worked their way in without seducing a single soul, but Charon has been the King’s right hand man.

Porthos nudges him with her elbow and he goes staggering forward, suddenly in the spotlight. Porthos shoots him a look that says, _speak_ , as urgently as she can.

And he does; and it’s brilliant.

Porthos stands there with Flea, watching their best friend proudly as he quickly and firmly earns the trust of those around him. “Should’ve known he’d beat us to the punch,” Flea gets out, but despite her annoyed words, there’s a fondness to them that can’t be hidden.

 

 

_23_

“Why haven’t you tried to run away again?”

It’s Porthos’ chosen birthday and they’ve been drinking red wine for hours. Now, in the pale candlelight, Flea seems to be recollecting old memories and has decided to prod and poke at Porthos’ worries. “What?” Porthos manages, trying to act like she hasn’t got a clue what Flea means when, really, she’s completely aware.

“You tried to run off and join someone’s personal guard, as if that would’ve worked,” she snorts derisively. “You never went again.”

_I haven’t caught you with a strange man since_ , is what Porthos thinks, but isn’t near drunk enough to actually say out loud. Her jealousy comes in fits and starts, but is easily quieted because Flea sleeps in Porthos’ bed at night, though her wandering fingers have never roamed over the untraced and unmapped planes of Porthos’ smooth skin. Her peaks are untraveled, her valleys uncivilized. 

She may be getting lonely, but at least she’s not in danger of losing Flea. Besides, Porthos has never wanted to define her life by the way she’s been touched, so being a virgin at this age means nothing to her because there hasn’t been anyone she’s wanted to be with, save for Flea (and Charon, at times, though his brotherly affections have stopped most of those thoughts). 

“Why?” Flea asks again, in that stringent way that means she isn’t going to let it go.

“You didn’t want to come with me,” Porthos admits, the wine loosening her tongue enough that the truth stumbles out. “And you were right. I would’ve been fighting an uphill battle again and again, without you and Charon to support me.” When it really comes down to it, though, it’s Flea that matters the most.

Flea seems content with that answer, a self-satisfied smile on her lips as she slides her palm around the nape of Porthos’ neck and she thinks, _this is it, something is going to happen_ , but all Flea does is lean in and brush a chaste kiss to the corner of Porthos’ lips the way she’s done hundreds of times. She murmurs a soft ‘good’ and that’s the issue put to bed.

 

_25_

Porthos has a terrible feeling that something bad is about to happen.

There have been Musketeers lurking at the outskirts of the Court. They’ve tried to costume themselves and they’re not terrible at it, but Porthos has spent a lifetime picking up on outsiders. These two? They couldn’t belong if their lives depended on it. One’s too pretty and clean and while the other looks like he might have fallen on hard luck, he still has too many tells (like the way he keeps reaching for his sword).

She’s leaning against a doorway, chomping an apple while she watches them ask their questions about who’s in charge, where he holds Court, and when she’s sure she has enough information, she slips into the shadows to go find Flea.

“I think there’s Musketeers here for Charon,” she reports, watching as Flea glances up briefly from the ledger where she keeps track of their take. 

Things have been getting strange. Charon had been a good king for years and years, but lately he’s been less active and doesn’t seem to care about the Court anymore. If Porthos didn’t know any better, she’d suspect him defecting. He keeps insisting that nothing is the matter, but Porthos knows better.

“Let them be, Porthos,” Flea warns.

When has Porthos ever listened? She sneaks out and catches the both of them about to be robbed of all their trinkets. Whistling, she calls off the young thieves and the circle around them disperses, even though it would have just looked like a normal crowd to anyone’s eyes.

The prettier man looks shocked and surprised, but the dour one just huffs out a wry laugh.

“You shouldn’t come into the Court looking like that,” Porthos advises, finishing off the last of her apple. Her fingers are weighed down with pretty rings and her hood keeps her face somewhat obscured, but she knows how to take care of herself. “What are you after?”

“A criminal ran through here,” the dour one informs her. “Anyone who aids us will be well-rewarded. We were going to ask the King for clemency.”

“You’re not gonna get through here alive,” Porthos says matter-of-factly. “Bribes or not.” 

The pretty one steps closer and seems to think charm is going to work on her, but Porthos just casts an amused look up at him, as if a challenge for him to try. 

“But maybe, if you were behind me, you might not get all your possessions robbed. Maybe,” she clarifies. 

It seems to be enough. The pretty one takes off his hat and affords her a bow. “Aramis, at your service,” he says. “And that’s Athos.” He presses a hand to the small of her back and Porthos tries not to shiver (because it’s been so, so long since she’s been touched with _intent_ like this), except instead of wanting this, her mind just shifts back to Flea and how she wishes that Flea would touch her like this instead of the easy, friendly ones she constantly offers.

“Lead the way,” Athos says curtly. “Before we lose him.”

At least she’ll pick up a few coins out of this, not to mention it looks as if she can manipulate Aramis for her own benefit, if need be. It’s always good to have back-up plans.

 

 

_25_

This time, she’s going to leave for good. 

It’s different than before because she’s been exchanging letters with both Aramis and Athos, even though letters from the latter come much less often. They’ve both promised that in exchange for the help she’s been giving to them, they can find her a place in someone’s guard, if not aiding the Musketeers from time to time.

“It’d be honourable,” Aramis says to her when he drops by at the entrance to the Court, trading off a letter from Athos and a few pieces of bread in exchange for information about a thief who’s been working her way through the Queen’s maids to steal jewels. “And you’d be good at it.”

She’s thinking about it very seriously because she’d seen something else. Flea and Charon, together, talking too close and standing even closer. He’d watched Charon kiss Flea’s knuckles and it’s forcing Porthos to realize that pining forever and putting her own life second isn’t going to do her any good.

“Besides, aren’t I handsome enough to follow?”

“You’re too egotistical for your own good,” Porthos grumbles, working one of her coins over her knuckles and then back again. She’s trying to get the images out of her mind and trying desperately to do anything but think about what she’d seen, but it’s near impossible. The problem comes back to the same one she’d faced two years ago.

If she leaves, it’s saying goodbye to this life. It’s cutting all ties with Flea and Porthos is an adult woman who’s freely able to admit that she’s desperately in love with her best friend. Honour sounds lovely and all, but Porthos also knows that she’ll face a steep climb. She’s a thief, a woman, and with her colouring, she’s not going to be met with many others like Aramis and Athos.

If she leaves, it’s for a hard life with honour, but one she’s not sure she wants.

Not when they can start to work the Court into something better.

“You’re not coming, are you?” Aramis asks knowingly.

“How do you know before I do?” she protests.

“My darling thief, you’re very beautiful,” Aramis laments, “but you wear every emotion on your face. I could tell the split second you decided you weren’t going to come with me. Shame,” he tuts. “I hope this doesn’t mean our arrangement is nullified.”

She shakes her head, knowing that she’ll need that to keep climbing her way inside the Court’s inner circles and that if she’s going to keep ascending, she needs to feed key information to do that.

 

 

_25_

“Why did you stay?” Flea asks, trailing her fingers over Porthos’ back as if petting a cat. “I know they offered you a way out. I know about the letters. I even know about the handsome one bedding you.”

Porthos wants to bristle at that, because her business is meant to be her own and what she and Aramis are getting up to in his apartments is meant to be private. It’s why she leaves the Court to do it (and to thieve a pretty trinket or two, but it’s Aramis’ fault for having so many lovely jewels for her fingers to steal). She curls into Flea’s touch a little harder.

“I wish you wouldn’t make me say it,” Porthos says quietly, offering Flea an out.

“Why did you stay?”

She’s getting no such luck today. “Because I’m desperately, stupidly in love with you and I have been since I was sixteen. And leaving means leaving you,” Porthos gets out, feeling like her chest is being ripped apart with the ache of even saying the words. “Only, I know you’re with Charon now, but better to be in love with you and know that I’ll never see anything from it than live without you.”

“What do you mean I’m with Charon?”

“Don’t play this game,” Porthos pleads. “I saw the two of you the other night, when I’d gone to bed and you stayed.”

Flea shakes her head and stares at the ceiling, a look of disbelief on her face. “Porthos,” she gets out, grabbing Porthos by the shoulders and practically shaking her. “For a clever woman, you’re occasionally also the stupidest. Oh, don’t bristle at me. Just pay attention,” she coaxes. “What you saw wasn’t me and Charon together. It was Charon giving me his blessing, you nitwit.”

“For what?” Porthos asks, awash with confusion.

“To make a move on you,” Flea manages, her smile overwhelmed with fondness and exasperation. “I never knew if he liked you that way, so I felt like I had to ask. And he told me that I’d been an idiot to wait too long. Is _that_ what you saw?”

Porthos has nothing to say in return, gobsmacked by what Flea’s telling her. 

Because it is what she’d seen, only she hasn’t got a clue what to do with this information. Lucky that Flea makes the move for her by pinning her to the bed and taking apart Porthos stroke by clever stroke of her tongue, deft touches of her fingers that prove she’s got more skills than just thieving.

Porthos comes undone more times than she’s ever had before and falls even more in love that evening. All those long years of waiting and finally, _finally_ she’s getting everything she’d ever wanted.

It’s perfect…

 

 

_26_  
…So of course it can’t possibly last.

“There are bombs in the Court.”

Porthos has made her choice and is staying, but she hasn’t stopped her communication with Aramis. They exchange letters to keep him apprised of the Court’s dealings and she gets advanced warning in case a raid is coming. She doesn’t really expect the in-person visit and certainly not this one, of all things. She tries to ignore Aramis, but he’s forceful today, grabbing at her shoulder.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he hisses.

“Yeah, I did, but I’d know,” is Porthos’ retort. “Nothing gets in here.”

“It does if it has the King’s permission,” Aramis darkly replies. “Charon is in league with a rich merchant to blow this place sky-high.”

“No,” Porthos says, refusing to believe a Musketeer’s word over her best friend’s. No matter how strange Charon has been acting, he’d never put the Court at risk and he wouldn’t put his inner echelon at risk. Porthos has started to think about all the recent times when Charon leaves them to be on his own, the way he frowns every time someone talks about a long and prosperous life in the Court, and how when all these puzzle pieces come together, the picture gets painfully clear.

Aramis seems to feel very sorry for her, but if there is a threat present, they don’t have time for this.

“Hey,” Porthos gets out, catching Aramis by the sleeve. “Don’t you dare hurt him,” she warns in a growl.

“I won’t,” he vows.

It’s a pretty promise, but not one that seems to last. Because later, Charon’s eyes are dull and blank – there’s a knife in his hand and Athos is talking quietly about how he’d charged him and Aramis had stepped in and saved his life. Porthos can’t hear a word, all of them rushing along with the white noise that’s drowning her head.

All she sees is Charon lying on the ground, gold coin in his pocket from the man who’d bribed him to destroy their home. All she sees is the traitor who’d nearly taken away Porthos family and their home, but instead she’s just lost a brother.

“Porthos,” Flea murmurs softly, tugging at her hand. “We need to go. They’re calling a meeting and I think it’s about time we took a stand.”

She nods, feeling vacant and empty, but aware that Flea’s the sensible one. Porthos is letting her emotions govern her. She lets Flea tug her away, watching Aramis mouth apologies and Athos cast sympathetic eyes over her. It’s not enough. She doubts anything is ever going to be enough.

But life goes on and the Court needs a new head of state.

Flea’s got a few choice words about that and luckily, everyone is in a listening mood.

 

_28_

“Are you ready for this?” Flea asks, as Porthos adorns her with a crown made of flowers and gems, all of it stolen. She looks radiant in her silk blue robes (also stolen) and while it may only be for ceremony, Porthos would like to try and convince her to stay in the gorgeous garments as long as she can.

Well, that, and she’d like to tear them off. It’s a bit of a complex situation Porthos is in, but she knows how to prioritize. 

Swearing in ceremony first, undressing and copious amounts of sex later.

Porthos herself is clad in the finest pair of breeches she’s got, a cloak to make the Musketeers green with envy, and brocade affixed to every single part of her that hasn’t got gold accessorizing her every bit. Flea’s certain to want out of her things by the end of this, but Porthos is like a magpie who wants to stay like this forever.

“I’m more than ready,” Porthos agrees. “It’s a long time coming.”

“Queen Porthos,” Flea greets with a playful grin.

“Queen Flea,” is all she retorts.

“So,” she murmurs, “I’m going to ask you one more time and I’d like to think you’ll answer your queen honestly.” Porthos already knows what’s coming, so she isn’t surprised when Flea asks, “Why did you stay?” for the third time in a decade. “You could have had honour with them. You would have even enjoyed yourself. You’re good at anything you put your mind to. I wouldn’t have even blamed you.”

Porthos shrugs as she fixes the circlet she’s wearing (which apparently has belonged to a few noble ladies through the years). “It was a simple enough thing when you get down to it. Honour or love. I picked love.”

Flea practically melts forward for a kiss that Porthos is more than happy to give, holding onto her possessively protectively tight. 

“Don’t get sappy on me,” Porthos teases. “We’ve got a Court to run.”

“I told you they’d figure out who’s really in charge soon enough.”

Porthos lets Flea lead the way and basks in the glory of this moment listening to thieves cast their praise and joy to their new Queens of the Court, ready to follow them down whatever path they lead. She could have had honour, but she’s rather glad she’d picked love.

It’s definitely going to prove to be a life filled with excitement, Porthos can sense that much. No one’s ever going to forget their names, now, and that’s just the way it should be.


End file.
